Three Months

It’s a change for me to write something personal here. I’ve had a varied and long career in education. When I happily retired in April, I was so looking forward to having the luxury of getting on with my writing. Alas, fate decreed that was not to be. My three best friends, one after the other, fell by the wayside to surgery. One had a mastectomy for breast cancer at the end of March. I’m pleased to say, she is now doing very well. In May, another had knee replacement surgery, and that was successful. Then the third also had knee replacement surgery in June. Again successful, however, her recovery is taking a tad longer. I did what any good friend would do. I set to in practical ways to help each one of my long standing, much loved friends. They would do the same for me. I’m so glad I was free to be with them and not working. Three months have flown, and I’m only now thinking about my writing again. I have though had some super reading binges in those months.

One of the novels that kept me awake reading all night: Candy’s Children by Sylvia Murphy. An enthralling, wonderfully paced, exciting story by a superb writer. Much thanks Sylvia, your book made me say, “If only I could write like that.”

One other book which kept me awake reading until I heard the dawn chorus. That was Eva Ibbotson’s children’s novel, Journey to the River Sea. I had actually bought that one for a friend’s twelve year old daughter. They live on Prince Edward Island, Canada. Chloe is an avid reader, their local library, which is small, can’t keep up with her appetite for reading. The book has since winged its way to her with others.

My childhood in Scotland was after the war years. My sister and I raided our local library every week. Reading has been a lifetime habit, and that took us both into careers in education. We were fortunate as children. Our mother encouraged us to read. We also had the joy of camping and walking in the Western Highlands. We had no television then, in the freezing winter months we listened to the wireless when not reading. The adults around us were storytellers, especially our grandmother. She would tell us stories every night before we went to sleep. Those were not from books, they were stories passed on from one generation to another. That combination of reading, listening to the wireless, and grandmother’s stories, was so enriching. I'm certain my imagination developed through those influences in childhood.

Silent Conspiracy

Apple Tree Cottage struck me as being quaint, and it was off the beaten track in the North Yorkshire Moors, nearby Scarborough and Robin Hood Bay. I needed the tranquillity more than the work, anticipating this new assignment would be tame. A community of Carmelite Nuns conjured up images of peaceful contemplation from the harsh realities of the world, of cloisters, incense and Gregorian chant. I had a new Dell laptop with 320 gigabytes, had upgraded the Photoshop software, and packed the laptop with my camera gear in the car for the trip to the North East. Photographers, much like artists and writers, tend to be tenacious. We persist with honing our skills, seeking the unique, the perfect shot. As a photojournalist, I had travelled extensively. My last assignment had been for the BBC in Somalia, where I became sick with Hepatitis. After that it was impossible to continue. The dragging illness precipitated months of lassitude and painful reflection. I had seen more famine, war, death and destruction, than I cared to remember. Most especially children’s pitiful emaciation in the countries where people struggle to survive as refugees, their lives on the desolate edge of existence. As with most photographers in my field, I had taken too many risks in the opinions of those who love me. Young, feisty, and determined to succeed, my career began in the 1970s when feminism was changing women's perceptions of what could be possible.

Even early in childhood, I had railed against the constraints of being a girl. Unlike the boys in the neighbourhood, we girls had to be sedate, predestined to conform. Boys had more freedom, something I envied. Most girls play with dolls, but I quickly tired of the lifeless, baby caricatures, other girls seemed thrilled by. I would have been nine years of age then, a privileged girl with access to the boy’s inner sanctum. One of the gang. My summer clothes comprised navy blue shorts, with yellow cotton tops. Girly frocks were no good for climbing trees, leaping over streams, cat-walking on dykes, or scrumping apples from orchards. Of the three Cleary boys, who lived next door, my favourite was Billy. He had his mothers nut brown hair, and his father’s sturdy build. Always tanned from an outdoor life, Billy had a gypsy spirit with a gentle respect for nature. We were constantly together.

The long hot summer of 1967, when in our teens we hiked in the fells, would be one of my most enduring memories. Billy’s elder brother, Stewart, had casually said a magic lake was hidden in the woods there. We never really trusted Stew, he was a consummate liar. But curiosity got the better of us, we had to find out. Billy's younger brother, James, tagged along with us. We had filled empty lemonade bottles with water, and taken thick cut cheese sandwiches with us. Trudging along the edges of fallow fields, we played at being soldiers on manoeuvres with James. Splashed through shallow streams, soaking our sandals, climbed upwards and onward, to where we thought the woods might be. Stopping to slake our thirst, we rested for a while under a giant beech tree, listening to the hum of insects in the bracken. There were lingering moments, when the larks sang sweetly, feathered gymnasts, hovering, dipping and diving, in the bluest of blue skies. When long speculations like flowing dreams, urged us that magic could be stirred at the next tree stump, round the next bend in the track, or stumbled upon when hope has almost vanished. And so it was on that day, we found a small deciduous wood of golden aspen, silver birch, and eared willows. We wandered into a shimmering glade startled by shafts of sunlight. Saw a lake where we could swim, where on the far side the water capriciously swirled.

Past Deception

Most mornings Elena had coffee with her neighbour Frances, who after driving her three children to school, called in at ten o’clock. Frances had been her mainstay when Elena’s marriage began cracking. A year ago, Elena’s husband Dan, had discussed the prospect of his promotion moving them to Europe. She was set against living in Germany. Her mother’s stories about the Nazi occupation of Greece had coloured her attitudes. Elena would never wittingly buy anything made in Germany. She avoided Germans when she and Dan were on holiday, refusing to have any kind of social rapport with them. One of her worst arguments with Dan, had occurred soon after his company moved into the German market. She was furious with him for not going for a promotion to France. Dan had reasoned with her that his fluent German gave him an edge. Elena had yelled at him, thrown his dinner onto his lap, ruining his navy blue suit.
“Your French isn’t at all bad.” She had shrilled. "If you had taken a crash language course before the interviews, I wouldn’t be so mad with you.”
Dan had stood his ground determined not to give in. “You don’t have to move.” He had said angrily through tight lips. “I can commute to Berlin.”
“I rarely see you the way it is now.” Elena had wailed. “Sod off to Berlin. But don’t expect me to entertain your German buddies.”

Now Dan was persuading her they should move permanently to Germany. “Give it a try. You would enjoy Berlin. I miss you when I’m away,” he wheedled.
“No Dan. You know my feelings about Germans. I will never learn to speak that language. Going there would be like betraying my mother and her family.”
Elena stormed off to the local pub, where she sat at an unobtrusive corner table after ordering a large cognac. Tearful she called Frances on her mobile, who was settling the kids in their beds. “Give me fifteen minutes. You know how the boys are. If I don’t tell them a story, Jeff won’t have peace.”

Sipping the warming cognac, Elena felt guilty for disturbing Frances. The pub was quiet with only a few regulars at the bar. She heard the nearby Church clock chime, hoped Dan would clear the dinner table, and put the dishes in the washer. Elena had no intention of being placatory, nor did she want to return home to find Dan sulking. Waiting for Frances to arrive, her thoughts moved to when she and Dan had first met. It was love at first sight on his part. Elena had been his tour guide. She had hardly noticed him for much of the Greece tour. The group of mostly young Americans had taken up more of her attention. She had been aware of Dan gazing at her with his hungry blue eyes. Thinking he was quite attractive, at the same time dismissing him as not her type.

Determined to earn as much money as possible from her temporary tour job that summer in 1997, Elena aimed to find photography work in New York. She could earn more money there, see more of the USA. Elena had a special rapport with one American on the tour. Rob a New England college teacher, with the build of an athlete, and an outgoing personality, had been seductively charming with her. Dan in contrast had seemed awkward, taciturn, and distant. Serendipity gave Dan his opportunity when Rob became sick in Heraklion, who said he would catch up with Elena later in Athens. Dan seized his chance to engage her in conversation at a local Taverna. After that evening, Elena had warmed to him more. He was protective when she couldn’t manage two group members, who were rowdy and argumentative after drinking too much Ouzo. Elena thought then, Dan’s concern for her safety was endearing.

Elena had excitedly anticipated Rob’s arrival, until she watched him swing into the Athens hotel foyer with a pretty blond hanging onto his arm. “Hi Elena, this is Adele. We met in Heraklion.” Rob had casually said, looking bronzed and in-love. “Adele’s a music student.” Elena felt crushed she was in-love with Rob. Her dream of being with him shattered like brittle glass that day. After the tour Elena met Dan in London. They saw each other frequently, Dan sent her flowers, took her to fashionable restaurants. He had a knack of being around when Elena’s photography assignments were slack. Besotted with her, Dan had persuaded Elena to see the summer through in London, before going to New York. Autumn and then winter passed, and she was no further forward with her plans. Dan had again persuaded Elena to wait until the spring before moving. By then she was used to having him in her life. “Come with me.” She said one day, as they strolled along the Thames Embankment. Dan’s response to that was, “Marry me.” Her parents approved of Dan. “He’s a decent steady chap.” Her father had said. Her mother asked if she loved him. Elena had hesitated before responding. That worried her mother. “If you don’t love him now, there’s no guarantee that will grow.”

Battle Ground of Wills

Nancy’s frustration leapt to the sharp arch of her eyebrows, to the tight tilt of her mouth, the controlled flare of her nostrils. Frome’s words had struck her like a shard of glass, cutting through his sly pretension. Blind to the blaze he had ignited in her, Frome had exposed his deeply held prejudice. Nancy knew at once, he could not be trusted. She could have retaliated; instead, she eyed him condescendingly with a coldly calculating stare. Then gazing over his head, she focused her ire upon the bare, stark trees, beyond his office window. Frome’s peculiarly clipped speech continued like a river in spate. Seated stiffly on the hard-back upright chair, as if patiently waiting for the London train, Nancy’s thoughts raced, there was much to consider, much to unravel. Averting her gaze from the window, she politely asked him for a cup of tea. The flow of his words halting, Frome’s slippery eyes danced in their sockets, he was not accustomed to interruptions. The immediacy of his heavy silence had become a battle-ground of wills. Frome saw, Nancy could be a formidable woman if thwarted. “Perhaps, Miss Prophet. You need more time to consider my offer?” His placatory words cut no ice with Nancy, her composure was restrained, her voice curt. “Yes, more time. Goodbye, Frome.” Dismissing him like servant, Nancy left the office scheming. She hailed a taxi for the station, her thoughts refusing to consider any further contact with Frome. His offer for the old manor house, had been absurdly arrogant.

Aujourd'hui

Dawn is the loveliest moment of the day the doves waken me with their cooing. My morning routine to have a wander in the garden, the cool dewy air is always reviving. I say Bonjour to the plants and flowers. Drink orange pekoe tea, waiting for the honey bees to arrive from Madame Lisle’s hives. They buzz in as the sun dances before it sizzles. In the mornings the garden hums with life.

Peter is right when he said I have Miss Marple traits. Since coming here, I have felt strongly this house has secrets. I want to explore the attic. People tend to leave all kinds of interesting things in attics. I’m hesitant to ask Peter’s permission, he could think that an intrusion. Of course, I could do that if I say I’d like to put my small trunk there. That’s taking up space in the bedroom.

I won’t return Du Lille‘s call, he takes his mother to mass, after that they lunch at Madame Lisle’s bistro, he’s a man of rigid habits. I would have gone to Madame Lisle’s for lunch, she’s a gossip and like all gossips, well informed. Sunday is not her best chatting day, most families lunch out on Sundays. French family lunches are long affairs, Madame Lisle will most likely be busy until five o’clock. I'm sure she’s hiding something about the war years, but what could that be?

Peter came home as breakfast was being served. Looking, I have to say, somewhat hung-over. He’s gone to play golf in La Baule. The Brits enjoyed exploring the Loire valley. They were famished this morning, so I cooked Eggs Benedict for them. Nice and easy, better than a high calorie English breakfast. There is a buffet with a lovely selection of cheeses, fruit and croissants. They scoffed much of that as well. I’m not sure where they’ve gone today? They floated some suggestions. Not that it matters to me, where the guests go to.

The cove is deserted I could go there and read my book. I’m only part-way through the Martha Gellhorn biography. Her colourful life as a war correspondent would be a fascinating film. She never really loved Hemingway, their relationship wasn’t one of passion, certainly not on her part. Her novellas are worth reading, those are so well written and racy. Gellhorn was never a boring woman. It seems remise of the film industry, that her life should be neglected. Gellhorn had one of those strong mature faces that never aged much well into her sixties.

I should write a review for my book club. Send that to Davina Tallboys in an e-mail. She hosts the book club discussions. Davina is bossy to an extreme; the Vicar's wife, she runs the poor man ragged with her various organisation activities. She's not keen on the French, never approved of the Common Market. According to her, if the French can do us down, they will. She was quite put out when finding I'm a Francophile. Heaven forbid that she should ever become a Member of Parliament. She has aspirations in that direction. Much like Madame Lisle, Davina’s an intrusive compulsive gossip.

This line from Robert Frost's Fire and Ice, keeps buzzing in my head. "We stand around in a ring and suppose; But the Secret sits in middle--and knows."

A Simple Truth

When a friend referred to the simple truth of love, my initial thought was, there is no simple truth. That only a great philosopher or mystic could provide a discourse about that. Then later, it came to me, that there is. The simple truth of love is best not being intellectualized. Its truth is how we live in it unconditionally with others. How it directs our lives; inspires our deepest yearnings; comforts our grief's; makes our joy ring out. Love is the most gracious, warm aspiration we can have. A deep companionship settles within, when we boldly, imaginatively, share our love.

John O' Donohue proposes: "The imagination is the creative force in the individual. It always negotiates different thresholds and releases possibilities of recognition and creativity which the linear, controlling external mind will never even glimpse. The imagination works on the threshold that runs between light and dark, visible and invisible, quest and question, possibility and fact. The imagination is the great friend of possibility. Where the imagination is awake and alive fact never hardens or closes, but remains open, inviting you to new thresholds of possibility and creativity." Anam Cara: Wisdom from the Celtic World.

The First Paragraph

“One of the most difficult things is the first paragraph. I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily. In the first paragraph you solve most of the problems with your book. The theme is defined, the style, the tone.” Gabriel García Márquez

Red Window Shutters

Jancy loved the old house on the bluff with its red window shutters. She was seven, her brother Teddy five, when they first saw the house, a converted fisherman’s cottage, with a hull shaped shingle roof. That was thirty years ago. Her mother, a practical woman, had rented the house for two summers, before deciding to buy. The price was modest and affordable then. The house, with its wide view of the estuary, healed her mother’s shattered life.

Neither Jancy nor Teddy, recalled much about their father. John Robbins war in the Far East had marked him. Jancy’s mother said she met a stranger when he returned. She had tried to make the marriage work. After the divorce, they moved to the house on the bluff. The rhythm of their childhood, flowed with the work of the house, their mother had converted the front sitting room into a small tearoom. She served cream teas to factory workers on their summer holidays.

Jancy retained sweet memories of long, lazy summers with Teddy, swimming, sailing, and flying home made kites above the sand dunes. When more people came to the estuary, the tearoom flourished, her mother could afford to extend the house. Soon after that she put up a bed and breakfast sign. She hired a girl from the village, Betsy was fifteen then, a fast worker and smart. Jancy liked hanging around with Betsy, who seemed wiser in the ways of the world, than her mother.

A House With Four Rooms

"There is an Indian proverb or axiom that says that everyone is a house with four rooms, a physical, a mental, an emotional, and a spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but, unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person." Rumer Godden.

A useful exercise: to explore your rooms using Natalie Goldberg's approach to writing.

Writing is a compulsive way to make sense of ourselves and the life we live. Storytelling takes us to the creative other within who wants to be heard. Enriching and whilst a solitary occupation, we are never truly alone when telling ourselves a story.

A perceptive colleague once asked "Do you read simply for enjoyment or is there another agenda?" The pleasure factor is high, that begins with browsing for new and established authors. Holding a book and reading the cover blurb, is anticipatory. The hidden treasure to discover inside, a teasing thought.

Then there are the pauses, when thinking about the characters as a story moves along. Finding an author's story devices, I'm into that kind of analysis, that’s part of my reading pleasure. How I become hooked by a story and what makes it an irresistible read, gives me a buzz.

Half Moon Street

When Kate Lancing read a newspaper advertisement for a commissioning editor, she was initially attracted by a name. Tucked away in an unpretentious area of London’s Bloomsbury, Half Moon Street had engaged her imagination. That plus Kate’s proclivity for a change of scene, which suited her situation as a woman on the brink of finding herself, swayed her to post an application letter.

The small academic publishing house of Jonas Finkelstein, had over thirty years, established a reputation for excellence. The present senior editor would be retiring, and Kate, if successful, felt confident she could follow that imprint with similar dedication. The position required an experienced person of mature temperament. Although a less experienced editor would be considered. This latter compromise had been included at the insistence of the junior partner, Larry Fisk. He had persuaded someone he knew in the trade to apply. A woman he could charm and manipulate.

Kate Lancing’s approach to life had more than surface texture. Failing to obtain a Doctorate after two attempts, she had settled for an MPhil. Her failure, as she saw it, was due to no more than male academics prejudices against women. Thereafter, she resolved to deal with her male counterparts, by critiquing their work with scything comments as a manuscript editor. Kate’s intention whilst initially vengeful had the opposite effect. Her diligence and accuracy was such, that over time she felt overwhelmed by the volume of work coming her way. Those who had denied Kate a PhD, were advising their doctoral students to consult her. Kate’s name became an unexpected byword, for those students subsequent publishing success. Her uncle Thad had coined her work the lancing principle, an imperative much like lancing a carbuncle. Which he postulated, had made her editing reputation one of the best.

James Thaddeus Lancing, Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at University College Hospital, London, had published the first revised edition of Henry Gray's Anatomy for Medical Students, with Finkelstein of Half Moon Street. The book had been a runaway international success, with seven reprints. His reference, and the fact his book had given the publishing house much needed international prestige, ensured Jonas Finkelstein would be obligated to shortlist Kate for an interview.

Larry Fisk of diminutive stature, pernickety habits, and devious ambitions, had other thoughts about Kate’s application. As an avowed socialist, who deeply resented patronage, Larry refused to be persuaded by Professor Lancing's reference. Cautious with an eye to his own future plans, Larry was careful not to antagonise Jonas. Instead, he used new employment regulations, attempting to ensure his partner retained an open mind. Jonas, however, had already consulted his retiring senior editor Marjorie Cummings. Who had assured him, Kate Lancing was the most suitable applicant. That satisfied Jonas, who avoided further discussion with his junior partner.

Marjorie Cummings and Larry Fisk, had a relationship of mutual dislike. Taller by seven inches, Marjorie's height was a humiliating contrast for Larry. Always careful to avoid confrontation, Marjorie’s disapproval, only ever evident when she raised a finely arched eyebrow. Reluctantly, she had to credit him with bringing in new business to Half Moon Street. Not that she ever voiced that to him. In her estimation, Larry was a puffed-up pipsqueak, who although he knew the business inside out, lacked the manners of a gentleman. She bristled on the occasions when he would smirk and say, “Times are changing, Marjorie.” As if she never knew, times are always changing.

Political books were Larry's line, which Marjorie conceded he commissioned from eminent, reliable, people. She couldn’t fault him on that score. Conversely, from the outset, Larry saw Marjorie for what he thought she was. A pretentious, Oxford educated, conservative snob. He couldn’t resist sending the occasional jibe in her direction. For all they had irritations and differences, they shared a mutual respect for the business. The publishing house was more important than their frosty relationship. And they mostly kept business matters to the forefront, when engaging in conversations.

As for her retirement plans, convinced Larry would eventually take over the Half Moon Street publishing house from Jonas, Marjorie decided that would never do. Latterly Jonas had become forgetful, less in control since his wife’s death, leaving more of the decisions to Larry. Aware Larry thought Kate Lancing a wild card, Marjorie was all the more determined, she would be appointed. To that end and unbeknown to Larry, Marjorie had persuaded Jonas, to include a future partnership clause in Kate’s contract. Before retiring, she would have six months in which to teach Kate the business. Marjorie's coup de grâce would be in making certain, pawky Larry Fisk had strong unnerving competition.

Nutshell Writing

Two years ago, when planning major home renovations, Sandy popped into my life. She’s a successful interior designer. She also has difficulty with emotional commitment. Not in her work that’s completely focused, obsessive perfection rules her life. Sandy can’t make commitments in her intimate relationships with men. Not the deep loving kind, she’s a control freak. She’s also fictitious.

Personalities and their motivations are initially more important to me than plot. How they behave and react to situations, and other people, develop the plot as well as moving that along. Waiting for inspiration can be unreliable, that’s why I give myself writing exercises. The errors I make when writing aren’t always immediately evident to me. Whilst revising can be tedious, that’s when I see my mistakes.

Nutshell writing: a collection of short speculations, mostly story beginnings. I’m always fascinated by other people’s creative writing process. If any writers should call in, I would love to hear from you.